


With Sure Certainty

by andimeantittosting (Saylee)



Series: Andimeantittosting's Harlequin fics [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1800s, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Former Naval Officer Dean, Former Servant Dean, Former soldier Castiel, Happy Ending, Injured Castiel, M/M, Making Up, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Reunions, Secret Relationship, So Many Cameos, destielharlequinchallenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting
Summary: At seventeen, Castiel Shurley fell madly in love with Dean Winchester, the steward's apprentice on his brother's estate. When they were caught together, Dean was dismissed, and Castiel was sent to war, told to bring honour to the family name or die trying. With peacetime finally upon them, Castiel is shocked to discover that Milton Park's new neighbour is none other than his erstwhile lover.Dean, now Captain Singer, has spent the better part of a decade believing that Castiel betrayed him. When he learns that Castiel is at Milton Park, recovering from his battle wounds, he embarks on an ill-advised plan for revenge. When the man he finds is nothing like the villain he has imagined him, he must learn to put aside his anger, and trust, once again, in love.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Jane Austen.
> 
> This was written for the [Destiel Harlequin Challenge](https://destielharlequinchallenge.tumblr.com/). The original prompt was:
> 
> **H010: Again the Magic**  
>  _She gave him her innocence… Lady Aline Marsden was brought up for one reason: to make an advantageous marriage to a member of her own class. Instead, she willingly gave her innocence to John McKenna, a servant on her father's estate. Their passionate transgression was unforgivable—John was sent away, and Aline was left to live in the countryside…an exile from London society. …and he took her love. Now McKenna has made his fortune, and he has returned—more boldly handsome and more mesmerizing than before. His ruthless plan is to take revenge on the woman who shattered his dreams of love. But the magic between them burns as bright as ever. And now he must decide whether to let vengeance take its toll…or risk everything for his first, and only, love._
> 
> Thank you so much to the challenge moderators for running such a fun challenge. I have a deep and abiding love for both fanfic and romance novels, and combining them feels like such a natural fit.
> 
> So many thanks to my beta readers, [heyprokris](http://heyprokris.tumblr.com/) and [apocryphiend](http://apocryphiend.tumblr.com/), and thanks to my husband, [silver-millennial](http://silver-millennial.tumblr.com/), for all your support and suggestions.
> 
> **A quick note on historical accuracy:** While research was definitely involved in writing this fic, ultimately my goal was to capture the _feel_ of a regency romance novel, and in places, strict historical accuracy has been sacrificed in the name of story.

"If you have him arrested, Michael, I will implicate myself."

Castiel Shurley did not quail as his eldest brother, the Earl of Milton sneered. "And why should I not permit you to do so? I ought to hand you over myself for this perversion."

"Absolutely not." Until that point, the Dowager Countess had sat stiff-backed and tight-lipped in icy silence, as her eldest son had berated the younger. Both her sons now turned to her. "We cannot allow Castiel's indiscretions to tarnish our family's name. I still have Hannah, Hester and Anna to bring out in society, and Alfred still in school, not to mention the shame that would be visited upon all of us." She sniffed. "As Castiel has made it clear he has no concern for our family's reputation, we shall not involve the magistrate."

"Thank you, Mother," Castiel breathed, cutting himself off abruptly as she narrowed her eyes at him.

"There is no reason to thank me. Naturally the servant boy will be dismissed."

Castiel set his mouth. She spoke of Dean as if he were a mere stableboy, rather than the son of a gentleman, and assistant to Michael's land steward, one day to take on that position himself.

The Countess quelled him with a glare. "Kindly do not give me that look. He will be sent away, or Milton will have him horsewhipped. Milton, you will purchase a commission for Castiel. He may bring honour to our family on the battlefield, or die trying."

Castiel had always been intended to manage one of his brother's more far-flung properties, rather than for the army, but he knew there was no use arguing. He set his jaw, knowing he should be unsurprised by his mother's lack of compassion – Naomi, Countess of Milton had never shown any particular warmth to any of her children, and she had rarely been so displeased with any of them as she was with him now – but something in him still ached at the dispassionate way she had taken charge of the situation. He straightened his shoulders. As long as Dean was safe. "Very well. I will deliver the message to Dean. He will depart by nightfall, I promise you."

"And you with him, I suppose?" Michael raised a sardonic eyebrow. "No, Castiel, you will be confined to your rooms, until that creature is well on his way, with a warning in his ear not to attempt blackmail."

Dean would never, Castiel knew. They had exchanged fervent vows in the hidden copse that had become their private meeting place, and he had no doubts that Dean's confessions of love had been as heartfelt and true as his own. They had been caught only through a stroke of devastatingly bad luck.

And now Dean must leave without even a chance to say goodbye. Castiel could see no choice except compliance. "I understand."

Michael looked him over with a supercilious eye. "Then you will understand the need to face your punishment as well. Mother," he sketched a bow in her direction, "if you will excuse us."

And so it was that that evening found Castiel, back still smarting sharply from his brother's chastisement, confined to his chamber, and praying fiercely for Dean's safe passage.


	2. Chapter 1

When Captain Dean Singer sold out of the Navy, it was with eight years of battles behind him, eight years spent rising through the ranks, and amassing an impressive fortune through a series of remarkable victories. With the advent of peacetime, he ought perhaps to have settled in London where his brother Sam was making a name for himself in the law, or joined his Uncle Bobby, who owned a successful concern manufacturing carriages in Wiltshire.

Robert Singer was not, strictly speaking, his uncle, but he was the closest thing Dean and Sam had to family. There was ostensibly a grandfather living in the northernmost part of Northumberland, but he had not approved of his daughter's choice of husband. Though a gentleman by birth, John Winchester had not been possessed of any fortune, and rather than enter the church or the military, he had chosen to go into business with his acquaintance, Robert Singer, whose roots were decidedly in trade.

When John and Mary Campbell had made the dash to Gretna Green to be married, all contact had been severed. Mary had written only twice, to announce the births of her two sons. There had been no response, and she had perished in a fire shortly thereafter. In his grief, John had sold his share of the business to Robert, and had dragged his sons to the coast of Cornwall, where his mother's people were from, and had become involved with a gang of smugglers.

Only when a run-in with a Customs House officer resulted in John's death, was Robert able to locate the boys and bring them back to live with him. When Dean expressed an interest in employment beyond the world of carriages, it was Robert who had found him the placement at Milton Park, and when that had ended in disaster, it was he who loaned him his name, and the money to purchase his place in the Navy.

If Dean had no interest in settling in London, he really ought to have gone to him. Instead, within a week of coming to stay in Sam's neat townhouse, a chance encounter led him to impulsively rent a house within a few short miles of Milton Park.

Having learned that a friend and former mentor was in town, Dean had set out to pay his respects to that gentleman. Admiral Timothy Cain had been Dean's commanding officer when he himself had been a captain, and Dean had been a mere lieutenant. The older man had recognized something of himself in Dean, and had taken him under his wing, teaching him the ropes of command, and putting him forward for promotions. When Dean had been given command of his own vessel, it was with the knowledge that he owed much of his success to Captain Cain's glowing recommendation.

As luck would have it, Dean made it no further than the well-appointed but unostentatious entry hall, having arrived at the Admiral's house just as that man had been prepared to go out.

"If it isn't Captain Singer," he greeted Dean gladly. "I am just on my way to the bookseller's, but you are welcome to join me, if you wish. In fact, please do. It has been too long since we have seen each other."

Dean, who had only a small, but well-loved collection of books, was pleased to join him. No longer living in the cramped quarters of a ship, he could at last expand his library. The two gentlemen spent the leisurely stroll to Bond Street deep in conversation, exchanging news of their mutual acquaintances in the Navy, of Sam, and of Admiral Cain's wife, who had sadly been suffering from a chill all spring, but who was now recovering well, and able to enjoy at least a few social events before the close of the season.

"I have no interest in balls and routs myself," the Admiral explained, as they entered the close confines of the booksellers, "but Collette enjoys being among people. If I can face down a fleet's worth of cannons, I can endure at least one so-called grand squeeze for her sake. Love has the effect of making us irrational, and I am told I am rather unfashionably in love with my wife. But then, you are not married, are you?" He stroked his beard, and selected a book from the shelf. "I seem to recall you being recently disappointed in love when you first joined my ship."

Dean, who had just added a copy of _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ to a stack that contained _Gulliver's Travels_ and Sir Walter Scott's _Marmion_ , looked at him sharply. "With all due respect, Admiral, where did you get an idea like that?"

"Pardon me," he said mildly, "I must have been recalling some other heartbroken young officer." He gave Dean a knowing look, and Dean felt his shoulders tighten, but before he could dig himself a hole with his denials, an oily voice cut into their conversation.

"Is that Admiral Cain? Well, well, well. What luck to run into you, cousin." The stranger rubbed his hands together in apparent glee.

"Cousin?" Dean asked his friend, _sotto voce_ , as the man tried and failed to hide a grimace.

"Yes, hello, Armstrong. May I present you to my friend, Captain Singer? Captain, this is Mr. Marvin Armstrong, who is married to a distant cousin of my wife." The emphasis was firmly on the distance.

"Singer? Captain Singer?" Armstrong mused. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"Captain Singer has made a name for himself in the recent conflict. Perhaps you have read about it."

Armstrong's face lit up. "Ah, a war hero! Yes, I remember now. Very pleased to meet you, my boy." He shook Dean's hand vigorously, his palm unpleasantly damp. Dean risked a glance at Cain, who was eyeing the exit with sudden interest.

"Perhaps we should move along with our errands, Captain Singer. I would hate to keep my wife waiting too long for our return."

But Armstrong was not to be deterred. "And how is your wife?"

"Well," Cain answered curtly. "She has recovered from her chill."

"Oh yes." Armstrong latched onto the topic with apparent glee. "Mrs. Armstrong is doing poorly, as well, you know. In fact, that's why I am in town. The physician has advised that she relocate to Bath and take the waters, and so I must find a tenant for Scribe's Hall." His eyes focused keenly on Dean. "I don't suppose I could tempt you with it, Captain Singer? It is a well-appointed home, and spacious, and very near neighbours with Milton Park, which is the Earl of Milton's principal seat, and very grand indeed. Why, we are frequently invited to dine with the Earl and his family, which is a great honour indeed."

"I can imagine," Dean said, unable to imagine anything that could induce him to set foot near Milton Park again. Unless, perhaps Castiel – but that door was closed forever. "However, I'm not certain I plan to relocate at this time."

Armstrong rubbed his hands together. "Understandable, my boy, understandable, but let me tell you more about the place, and perhaps you will change your mind. The vistas are very picturesque, you know, and the park boasts not one, but two follies – a Gothic tower and a hermitage, though sadly without a hermit at this time. I tell you, it is enough to inspire one to flights of literature. The old Earl was published several times, you know, and I fancy I caught something of the spirit from him. I am not published myself, yet, but perhaps in Bath I can complete my _magnum opus_. You are sure you are not interested in the house?"

"I –" Dean began, but found himself cut off.

"Ah," exclaimed Mr. Armstrong, rather too loudly, recognizing another man who had just entered. Too late, Dean recognized him as well. "And here is Lord Milton, my close neighbour. How do you do, my lord?" Dean froze as the aristocrat joined them. Admiral Cain, he noticed, had skillfully absented himself to another corner of the shop.

"Armstrong," Lord Milton returned the greeting, coolly withdrawing his hand from Armstrong's hearty handshake. "I did not expect to run into you here in London. Have you been brought here on business?"

"I have indeed." Armstrong agreed. "I was just telling young Captain Singer here that I am planning on letting my property and taking a house in Bath – for my wife's health, you understand. Have you met Captain Singer yet, my lord? A grand war hero, I hear. I am trying to convince him to take on Scribe's Hall."

"Captain Singer," Lord Milton extended a hand with no sign of recognition. "A pleasure."

"Likewise, my lord." Dean smiled tightly, hoping it would not be noticed. He forced himself not to tighten his grip too aggressively. He could not like the man, despite his pleasant demeanor. He remembered that Castiel had often expressed criticism for the icy superiority and ruthlessness that ran just under Michael's genial façade, but then Castiel had been rather cold in the end himself. He swiftly shut down that train of thought. "Although it is simply Mr. Singer, now. I have resigned from the Navy."

"And how is your family, my lord?” inquired Armstrong. "Are they in town with you?"

"My mother and youngest sister are," Milton confirmed.

"Oh yes, it is Lady Anna's first season, is it not?"

"Indeed." Milton looked amused. "Though I expect them to return home soon. My mother has not yet found her a suitor that meets her high standards. She will wait until next year."

"Naturally. You could hardly allow her to be snatched up by just any young upstart." Armstrong nodded at his own sagacity. "After all, Lady Milton has done excellently for your other sisters. One could expect no less for such a treasure as Lady Anna. And how are your brothers?"

"Lucian's wife has recently presented him with a son, and Alfred has been offered a living as curate in Salmonby." Milton ticked off the family news. "Castiel, of course, continues his convalescence at Milton Park. You will have seen him more recently than I."

“Castiel is sick?” The question came out more urgently than he intended, and Dean cleared his throat, avoiding the odd looks that Milton and Armstrong turned upon him. “That is to say, I wish your brother a speedy recovery of his health.”

Milton waved a dismissive hand. "It is nothing to be concerned about, a minor injury to his shoulder obtained in the Peninsula. I daresay he is making more of it than it warrants, and would recover quick enough if given the motivation."

That didn't sound like the Castiel Dean had known, but then, denouncing Dean to his brother as a seducer hadn't sounded like that Castiel either. No doubt, in his youth, dazzled by Castiel's looks and attention, Dean had never truly known him at all. The son and brother of an earl might amuse himself with the lower orders, but it had been foolish to expect his affection to be genuine.

But Castiel was languishing at Milton Park, and soon to be joined by his eminently marriageable sister? A plan formed. What better way to show him that he was not the only one to whom their fling had meant nothing? Dean found himself seized with a sudden urge to laugh. "Mr. Armstrong," he declared, before he could think better of it, "I think I am interested in renting your house, after all."

\---

"Explain to me again how you came to rent a house within a few short miles of Milton Park." Sam paced his study, glaring while Dean wistfully eyed the decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. He had begun to regret his impulsive decision almost immediately upon signing the papers, but could not back down now. Before he could pour himself a drink, there was a light tapping on the door, and Sam's housekeeper entered bearing the tea tray. "Thank you, Mrs. Leahy," Sam said, careful to keep his face turned fully to her so she could read his lips.

Dean bit back a smirk as the two smiled rather helplessly at each other, forgetting his presence for the moment. There was no doubt in his mind that Sam was smitten with the pretty, dark-haired housekeeper. He also suspected that, contrary to her name, she had never been married, but voicing such a suspicion, especially when she was working for a single man, would ruin her reputation, something he had no wish to do. Maybe, he thought, eyeing the pair, once he persuaded Sam to drop the subject of Milton Park, he would nudge him to do the honourable thing.

Alas, Sam's distraction from the matter at hand could not last, and Mrs. Leahy dipped a brief curtsy on her way out of the room, leaving Dean once more at the mercy of his brother's interrogation.

"What do you hope to achieve by becoming neighbours with Milton?" Sam asked, pouring the tea, pointedly handing his brother a cup before he could glance back towards the whiskey. "Especially after the way they treated you, driving you off in disgrace over a crime you had not even committed!" At the time, Dean had told Sam and Uncle Bobby that he had been falsely accused of stealing the silver, and he had never bothered to disabuse Sam of that notion.

Dean raised his eyebrows innocently. "I hear his youngest sister is on the marriage mart. Maybe I'll go courting."

Sam frowned at him. "War hero or not, fortune or not, you're hardly high enough in the instep to appeal to that family. And what happens when you are recognized?"

Dean shrugged uncomfortably over his cup. "Milton shook my hand and looked me right in the face, and did not recognize me. No doubt any servant is interchangeable with any other. I doubt anyone even remembers a steward's assistant who served a mere six months, more than eight years ago." But would Castiel remember him? And did he want him to?

Sam was a master of judgmental glares, and this was no exception. "You're playing a very foolish game, Dean."

Secretly, Dean agreed, though he could hardly say so. "I'll consider myself warned," he informed his brother dryly. "Now, I think you promised me supper at your club, unless you'd like me to make myself scarce so you can dine with your Mrs. Leahy instead." In that, at least, he had the satisfaction of watching Sam turn bright red.


	3. Chapter 2

Castiel stared as Michael presented the new tenant of Scribe's Hall. At seventeen, he had considered Dean the most radiant of mortals, but this man calling himself Mr. Singer, and looking rugged and weather-honed and golden, outshone the boy he had been by miles. And yet, he was unquestionably the love of Castiel's youth.

"Lady Milton," he greeted Castiel's mother, with a smile that did not meet his eyes, while Castiel schooled his features lest any sign of recognition gave Dean away. Dean, meanwhile, proceeded to flirt charmingly with Anna, who blushed and smiled, until a stern throat-clearing from Lady Milton moved him along, and he was meeting Castiel's eyes, his face going rigid beneath the fixed smile, and Castiel felt ice rush down his spine at the distance he saw there.

"Mr. Shurley," Dean acknowledged him, in a voice that would have sounded cheerful to anyone who had not known him as intimately as Castiel once had. He offered a hand to shake, and Castiel moved instinctively to reciprocate, wincing as pain shot down his arm like lightning.

"Excuse me." He withdrew his right arm with a grimace. "I injured my shoulder at Orthez and sometimes do not have the range of motion I once did." He extended his left hand instead, and Dean took it awkwardly. "I understand you saw a great deal of action yourself," he added, the introductions at an end, as everyone seated themselves in the drawing room. 

"I did, but it's hardly a pleasant topic. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Anna? Certainly not one worthy of these very pretty tea cakes."

Anna, who had been on the verge of frowning at Dean over the set down to her brother, laughed at his absurdity instead. "Shall I fetch you one, Mr. Singer? While my mother pours the tea?"

"How could I resist an offer from two such kind ladies?" He accepted, endlessly, effortlessly charming.

The next half hour seemed interminable, Castiel relegated firmly to the background, as Dean entertained his mother and sister with his gallantries, and conversed sensibly on the prospects of his new property. Castiel was not addressed by either his mother or brother, although he was well familiar with the topic. Anna, to her credit, did attempt to draw him in, but he found himself at a loss for insight. Dean never once glanced his way.

At long last, Anna urged him to allow her to show him the gardens before he departed, an offer he accepted with good humour, and Castiel was able to make his escape, intending to spend several hours in a solitary walk around the lake, conveniently located far from the formal gardens. The gentle breeze and the quiet sounds of nature would soothe his agitated spirits. Dean was here. Dean was here, and he knew him, but everything in his demeanor suggested that he no longer cared.

\---

Dean had been lavish with his compliments to Lady Anna all through tea, fueled by Castiel's lack of reaction upon their introduction, and his seeming lack of interest in the conversation around him. He had not remembered Cas as insipid. His sister, on the other hand, had been bright and engaging. As they passed under an arch riotous with roses, he took the opportunity to indulge in further flattery. "These gardens are beautiful, Lady Anna but they pale in comparison to you."

She laughed, but then grew serious, giving him a speaking glance. "You are a very accomplished flirt, I think, Mr. Singer. It has been entertaining, but I hope you do not have any serious aspirations towards me."

Abashed, Dean remembered Lady Anna's innocence in the events eight years prior, and that making her a part in his revenge did him no credit. "I beg your pardon. I have no wish to make you uncomfortable."

"It is quite alright," she assured him. "Do look at the peonies, there. They are my favourite. I like you immensely, Mr. Singer, but you must be aware that as the daughter and sister of an earl, I will be expected to contract a suitable marriage, and that you would not meet my mother's criteria. But I would like us to be good friends."

It was not well done of him, Dean reflected, to have flirted with her merely to embarrass her family, but he was grateful for the offer of friendship nonetheless. "If you want, we can be. I am sorry for my bad manners."

She smiled sunnily at him. "All will be forgiven if you come observe the terrace here. It is my usual place to paint."

He dutifully led her to the spot indicated. It was bathed in daylight, overlooking the rest of the gardens, and the lawn, which sloped away towards a lake, surrounded by regal trees on its farthest sides. A lone figure strode swiftly towards its shores. He knew it even from this distance. "Do you like to paint?" he asked, turning decisively away from Castiel's retreating form.

"I love it above all things. If I could, I would dedicate my life to it."

"What type of painting do you do?" He would not think of Castiel.

"Oh, watercolours, of course. It's the only medium suitable for a lady. I want to learn oils, but Mother and Michael are firmly against it. Castiel supports me, but his opinion is worthless with them."

"If you'll forgive my saying so, he didn't strike me as a man much used to voicing opinions."

Her lips thinned at his judgement. "He has been quiet since he returned from the Peninsula. I believe the war affected him deeply, as I'm sure you understand, Mr. Singer. And no doubt his arm pains him greatly."

"I was given to believe it was only a minor injury."

Anna let out an indignant, unladylike snort. "Michael told you that, I'm sure. Why he persists in believing that Castiel is malingering when it is evident that he cannot lift so much as a teacup in his right hand is beyond me.

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Pardon me. You're clearly much attached to your brother."

"He is a good man, and sad in a way I cannot reach. I–" She shook her head. "Forgive me. You invite confidences I should not be making. I suspect you are a good man, too."

He suspected strongly that he was not. Brow furrowed, he walked her back to the house, where he took his leave of her. He collected his horse from a groom, and spent the quiet ride to his new home contemplating again his motives for coming here.

\---

"He will not do for Anna, certainly," the Dowager Countess opined, "but he is unexceptionable company nonetheless."

"A very respectable addition to the neighbourhood," Michael agreed, "provided he has no pretensions to my sister's hand."

Anna looked up from the sketch she was working on. "You need have no concern on that point. I delivered him a gentle set-down while we were in the garden, and he was very prettily apologetic."

The Countess's lips tilted upwards into what might almost be called an approving smile. "I am glad to hear that. I have decided to invite him to join tomorrow's dinner party. With Mr. MacLeod's mother come to stay with him, we will need another gentleman to make up the numbers. Milton, will you take the invitation over to our new neighbour tomorrow?"

"Apologies, Mother, but I have already committed to taking the Misses Richings to Edlund Abbey."

The countess's lips tightened. "Hmm. I hope you are not thinking of courting either of them. Their mother may have been the daughter of a viscount, but the father is only the younger son of a baron and a physician besides. They are suitable company, and the eldest does have pretty manners, but I trust we will not see a deeper connection between our families?"

"I can assure you that that is not my intention."

"Very well, you shall not disappoint them. Castiel, you will deliver the invitation to Mr. Singer. I trust that this is not beyond you, despite your lingering injury."

Castiel saw a sympathetic grimace pass over Anna's face, quickly smoothed away before their mother could notice. Maintaining a composed façade at all times was one of the first lessons any child of Naomi, Countess of Milton, learned. He himself felt rather discomposed behind his own careful mask. To deliver an invitation to Dean, to be alone with him? What if he discovered that the coolness he had imagined from him had been genuine? But he must learn where he now stood with his erstwhile love.

He bowed. "I will deliver the invitation, ma'am. As you know, I have no other occupation, since I have not been permitted to take on the management of Rexford, as I had expected to do once I returned from war."

"Mind your tongue, Castiel."

"Certainly, mother." The words were delivered blandly. "You may rest assured that I will deliver the invitation tomorrow, but for now, I believe I will retire early. Goodnight Milton. Goodnight, Anna." He pressed his sister's hand warmly in his left. "Mother." He inclined his head ever-so-slightly to her, and she returned the gesture with a thin-lipped nod.

Once back in his chambers, he summoned his valet to help him off with his coat, mentally cursing the fashion for tight-fitting garments, and the fact that his position as Michael's brother along with his mother's disapproval meant that he could not shun fashion and opt for the more comfortable attire of a country gentleman. He only barely managed to rein in a shout as the coat pulled sharply on his injured shoulder, breathing heavily through his nose to ride through the pain.

Once bare to the waist, he dismissed his valet before he could help him on with a nightshirt. Instead, he performed his nightly ablutions before his mirror, pausing to run his fingers over the heavy scarring on the front of his right shoulder. The back, he knew, looked much worse. The doctor who had looked at him after the field surgeon had patched him up had told him he was lucky not to have lost the arm. As useless as it was, he wasn't sure that it had been worth saving. Dr. Richings, the local physician, had assured him in his dour way it would heal in time, but in the several months he had been home, he had noticed no improvement.

Castiel passed a restless night, and an early morning walk did nothing to clear his mind. When he finally returned to the house, he was pleasantly surprised to discover only Anna in the breakfast room.

"Michael has already departed," she informed him, "and Mother is in her dayroom catching up on her correspondence, so we may talk comfortably. Here is some coffee. I have a cup of chocolate myself."

"Thank you." Castiel poured himself a cup of the rich, hot liquid. "Do you know, I recently read a scientific paper suggesting that humans learned to use coffee from watching goats."

Anna shook her head. "Perhaps you will loan me that paper to read. Mother has limited me to improving books only, having determined that novel reading has been warping my mind. Even goats must be more interesting than Fordyce's Sermons."

"I have some papers I can loan you on the history of painting," Castiel offered, placing a piece of plain toast on his plate. "Those should be more interesting than either goats or instructions on modesty."

"Oh, thank you! And do take some eggs; you cannot possibly eat only toast." She peered at him with a frown. "You look dreadful, you know. Have you not been sleeping?"

Castiel acquiesced, and loaded two eggs and a sausage onto his plate. It would be better to eat, he conceded, even if he had to choke the food down. "It is no matter. It is merely difficult to sleep on my shoulder at times. I will be better once I have eaten, and I will tidy myself before visiting our neighbour."

\---

The last thing Dean expected after spending the morning tramping through the grounds of his new home was Castiel Shurley standing in his entranceway.

"Mr. Singer," Castiel greeted. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, but his polite smile betrayed nothing. "My mother has sent me to invite you to join our dinner party tonight, with a number of our neighbours. I was going to leave the card with your footman, as you were from home, but since you are here, I can issue the invitation in person."

Was there no recognition in Castiel's eyes? Dean rubbed a hand roughly over the back of his neck, then stopped abruptly. "Thank you for the invitation. It would only be polite to accept." He added gruffly, "I will not keep you from the rest of your day. Thank you."

An unreadable look passed over Castiel's face. "Actually, I would appreciate a word with you in private." He cast a glance towards the lingering footman.

Caught off guard, Dean cleared his throat. "Of course. We can speak in the study." He led the way, grateful that he remembered that much of the layout of his new home. It would have been unspeakably embarrassing to get lost in his own house.

Closing the heavy oak door behind them, he crossed to the sideboard without glancing at his guest. "If you are here to warn me away from your sister–" he turned to Cas with a glass of scotch in each hand, only to be arrested by the look on his face.

Castiel's impassive mask had been completely transformed, to an expression of naked relief, and something that Dean could not place, though it made something in his chest ache. "Dean," he breathed, taking a step towards him, then seeming to think better of it, and freezing in place. "Dean," he repeated, in tones of wonder. "I prayed for your safety, of course, and for your success, but I never dreamt I would see you again."

Dean, who had spent the last eight years trying deliberately not to remember or dream about Castiel, had no idea how to respond. "I hope my presence in the neighbourhood won't cause you difficulties," he said stiffly.

"Of course not," Cas denied, "but aren't you concerned about being recognized?"

"Your brother failed to discern my identity when we met in London. I have no reason to think I will be discovered. Unless you intend to betray me?"

"Never," Castiel swore. "How could you even ask me that?"

"You never know. You might want to deflect attention from your own inclinations."

Castiel looked as if he'd been slapped. "What?" he whispered.

Something wasn't adding up, Castiel's reactions too genuine, but Dean found himself unable to stop. "Why did you come here, Castiel? Were you hoping for another tryst with the servant boy?"

Castiel's face shuttered. "Forgive me. I ought not to have stayed after delivering the invitation. It was foolish of me, after all this time. Shall we still expect you at dinner?"

Watching Castiel retreat into himself, Dean felt a ball of guilt rise in his chest. "No, forgive me. As you say, it has been a long time. You may tell your mother to expect me among her guests."

"I will. And Dean," Castiel paused on his way towards the door, "the past aside, you may consider me a friend, if you wish."

"I'll see you this evening, Cas."


	4. Chapter 3

When Dean had first met Castiel, he had been a serious-faced boy, as intense in his determination to learn about land stewardship as he was in his desire to learn about Dean himself. Dean, far from being disturbed by the attention as he perhaps should have been, had found himself equally drawn to the quiet, earnest boy. Soon they were spending long afternoons rambling through the environs of Milton, ostensibly familiarizing themselves with the workings of the estate, but more frequently simply enjoying each other's company.

Dean had prided himself on drawing smiles out of the other boy, who was, he felt, far too solemn. The moment he had first made him laugh, at some inconsequential joke he could no longer recall, he had been struck dumb by his beauty.

"What is it?" Castiel had asked, his laughter subsiding to find Dean staring openly at him, and Dean had surged forward, capturing his lips with his own. He'd had a brief moment of blinding panic, but then Cas had been kissing back, equally enthusiastic, clutching at Dean's shoulders, and Dean had tangled his hands in Cas's glorious dark hair, and his mouth was warm, and slick, and perfect.

When they had finally pulled apart for breath, they could only gaze at each other wide-eyed.

Dean swallowed. "Cas, I–” he said, at the same time as Cas asked, "Dean, what–?"

"I," Dean tried again, "Cas, you're beautiful."

"Dean." Castiel licked his lips. "I've never met anyone like you. I've never felt the way you make me feel. May I kiss you again?" In response, Dean had caught Cas's hands in his own, and drawn him in, their lips meeting joyfully, sheltered beneath the boughs of their little copse of trees.

How much of that had been genuine, Dean wondered. The Castiel he had met today had been so reminiscent of his one-time lover, albeit a man now, rather than the boy he had been, but what of Dean's other memories? What of the uncaring aristocrat Dean had spent nearly a decade trying to forget, who had denounced him to save his own skin, who had him sent away without even saying goodbye? What of the polite but distant figure he had encountered at Milton yesterday?

Anna had risen warmly to Castiel's defense, and thought him a good man. Dean remembered her only vaguely – as a mere child under the strict tutelage of her governess, there was no reason for her to ever interact with the steward's assistant – but grown, she seemed possessed of sense, and a good heart. Could her assessment of her brother be counted upon? Castiel had expressed concern that Dean could be recognized. Could it be that he had feigned his distance in order to protect Dean's secret? And still, what of the past?

There were still a number of hours before it would be appropriate to dress for dinner and make the journey to Milton Park. He ought to write a letter to his brother, to calm his mind, and assure him that he had abandoned his ill-advised pursuit of Castiel's sister. Instead, he spent the afternoon nursing a glass of scotch and reenacting naval battles using the various knick-knacks Mr. Armstrong had left behind to mark the ships.

\---

Dean was one of ten guests, not counting the immediate family, at Milton Park that evening. Castiel was sufficiently distracted by his entrance that he trailed off mid-sentence.

"Mr. Singer," his mother's voice cut through the room. "Allow me to present you to your new neighbours." It was less an offer than a command. Dean dutifully presented his arm, and Castiel shook himself, and returned his attention to the rector, Mr. Inias Irvin. They had been deep in discussion on the raising of bees, a practice he had taken a great interest in since returning from the war, and one which he planned to implement if Michael ever relented and offered him the management of Rexford.

"I do beg your pardon," he began, but before they could delve further into the subject of apiculture, they were interrupted by Lady Milton shepherding Dean into their midst. Dean greeted Inias with seeming good humour, but his eyes were on Castiel, searching.

Castiel felt Dean's gaze on him again during dinner, though whenever he looked, Dean's attention was invariably on Miss Tessa Richings who was seated to his right. The elder of Dr. Richings' daughters, she was lovely, accomplished, and elegantly-mannered, exactly the sort of woman a man in Dean's position might be expected to marry. She and Dean did appear to be establishing a rapport, Castiel thought, watching her lay a delicate hand on Dean's forearm.

"Wherever has your mind wandered, Mr. Shurley?" His own dinner companion, Miss April Richings, laid her own hand on his wrist, in a possessive mirror of her sister's move. He turned his attention back to her, discreetly extracting his arm from her grip, not noticing Dean's eyes narrowing as he watched the display.

\---

Miss Richings was an engaging conversationalist, clearly intelligent, and able to converse on a wide range of topics. Moreover, she was exceptionally pretty. Dean ought to have been captivated by her, but though he liked her very much, his attention invariably drifted down the table to where Castiel was seated between the rector's wife and Miss Richings' younger sister, the latter of whom was pawing at the man in a manner that clearly made him uncomfortable. He frowned, watching Castiel attempt to eat left-handed, only the barest flicker of pain crossing his face when he did have to use his knife in his right, though the movement was slow and awkward.

He shouldn't stare. He turned back to his meal. While he had been distracted, Miss Richings had been drawn into conversation with Milton. To his other side sat Mrs. MacLeod, a diminutive red-haired woman in a gown that would have looked more at-home at a London rout than a country dinner, who he was given to understand had recently moved into the neighbourhood to reside with her son. She was determinedly cajoling conversation out of Dr. Richings, who, despite his gaunt appearance, seemed far more interested in his meal than in her or the elegant Mrs. Stark to his left. He did, at one point, focus his gaze on Castiel across the table from him.

"The arm has improved less than I had hoped," he diagnosed between mouthfuls. "I will stop by tomorrow to suggest some exercises to strengthen it." Thus satisfied, he returned to his meal with gusto, ignoring the ladies to either side of him, prompting Mrs. MacLeod to turn her focus on Dean.

When the meal finally came to an end, Lady Milton rose, the signal for the ladies to follow her to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port. A servant produced a box of cigars and offered them to the assembled guests. Mr. Stark and Mr. MacLeod each took one, as did Milton himself. Castiel did not, Dean noticed, though he did swirl his glass of port contemplatively.

Dr. Richings extracted a pipe from the pockets of his coat, and a small bag of tobacco. "My compliments to your chef, Milton," he said, lighting it, and taking a satisfied inhale. "The one thing that can be said for Milton," he told Dean in conspiratorial tones, "is that he keeps an excellent table."

"Now, now," protested the impeccably tailored Mr. MacLeod, "Let's let Mr. Singer decide for himself what he thinks of Milton Park's hospitality. Have you been satisfied thus far?" There was a hint of innuendo to his question that Dean neither liked nor fully understood.

"My welcome here has been very warm," he conceded, "and as you say, Dr. Richings, the meal was indeed excellent."

He was saved from having to further elaborate by Mr. Irvin, who asked, "And do you have any hobbies, Mr. Singer?"

"Being at sea for the better part of the decade, I have not had much time to cultivate any," Dean confessed. "Though I will admit to enjoying reading when I have the chance, and I do recall enjoying fishing at one time."

"Scribe's Hall boasts a superior library, I believe," Milton offered. "Quality, as I understand it. None of these outlandish Gothic novels that are so in fashion. Though I suppose Armstrong might have brought his collection with him."

Dean, who harbored a secret enjoyment of Gothic novels – the more outlandish, the better – was not about to admit to this in present company. "Some books have been removed, but a good number remain."

"There is excellent fishing in our lake." Castiel did not quite meet Dean's gaze as he said it, and Dean wondered if he was remembering two boys fishing together on that lake, taking advantage of the privacy of their favourite fishing spot to whisper secrets, and, later, words of devotion to each other, to kiss in the light of early dawn.

"Of course," Milton was saying, as if the suggestion was his. "You must come fish in our lake, Mr. Singer, any time you please."

The offer was too tempting to refuse. "Thank you for the invitation, my lord. And Mr. Shurley, thank you for the idea." Seeing Castiel's gratified expression, something warmed in him.


	5. Chapter 4

Once the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Lady Milton had asked the pretty Mrs. Irvin, who was a gifted musician, to favour the company with a song on the pianoforte, after which nothing would do but for Miss April Richings to insist upon taking a turn, and for Castiel to turn the pages for her. When she had been persuaded that she must allow the other young ladies to demonstrate their skills, Anna had smiled and asked him to remain to turn her pages as well, although Dean, with whom she had previously been quietly talking, would surely have been gallant enough to offer. Thus spared from further attention from Miss April, he had done his best, fumbling only once when he realized that far from joining the other guests in conversation, Dean's attention was fixed on the pair at the pianoforte. On Anna. Surely, on Anna.

Castiel had passed another sleepless night, and slipped out shortly after dawn, hoping the brisk early morning air would revive his spirits. He could walk the path through the woods with his eyes closed, and he did so, breathing deep of the smell of greenery, and listening to the melody of birdsong. Turning where the path curved to follow along the shore of the lake, he opened his eyes to meet the wide eyes of the man already there.

"Dean!"

\---

Fishing had long been one of Dean's favourite ways to clear his thoughts, and when Michael had offered him the chance to fish in his lake, he had remembered this spot, sheltered as it was by trees on three sides, hidden from view of the house, and serene. He used to come here, sometimes with Castiel, and sometimes alone. It would give him the peace he needed to try to reconcile his feelings about Cas.

He had sat for perhaps a quarter of an hour without a nibble, when he heard the snap of a twig behind him. He whirled, meeting Castiel's eyes.

"Dean!" Castiel gasped, then, "Dean, your line!" as the fishing pole was yanked sharply out of Dean's slack hands. They lunged for it, simultaneously, colliding, and landing in a tangle, Cas managing to clamp his left hand onto the rod just before it was pulled into the water. Scrambling onto his knees, Dean grabbed it from him, frantically reeling the fish in.

"Look at that beauty!" he exclaimed when it finally breached the water. He turned to Cas with a triumphant grin, to find him sitting upright, massaging his sore shoulder with a furrowed brow and clenched teeth.

Dean removed the fish from his hook, and placed it into a bucket of fresh water to swim around. Turning his attention back to Castiel, he asked with some surprise, "It really is bad, isn't it?"

"You have been talking to Michael, I see," Cas said with a wry tilt to his lips. "It has been painfully slow to heal, though right now, I believe I wrenched it in our fall."

"Here, let me." Dean placed a hand on Castiel's shoulder, feeling around to see if the joint was out of place. "It doesn't seem to be dislocated, at least. Does this help?" He massaged the flesh gently through the layers of clothing.

"Yes, somewhat." Castiel swallowed, and Dean's eyes traced the bob of his Adam's apple. Somehow, Dean knew not how, they had drifted together, until they were only inches apart. Dean raised his eyes to Cas's own, caught in their blue depths. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he leaned forward, Cas mirroring him, until he turned away with a sharp inhale.

"Do you know," he said with a humourless chuckle, "Anna calls me a bird with a broken wing. Though that's hardly the case, is it? I can still propel myself from place to place, without resorting to hopping."

Dean licked suddenly dry lips. "Cas," he began, tentatively.

But Cas had already turned from him, his back stiff. "No, I beg your pardon. The past is past. It was unforgivable for me to draw you into my transgressions eight years ago, and I will not do so now. You have done admirably for yourself. I won't ruin that."

"Cas," Dean tried again, reaching out to lay his fingertips against his arm. Cas felt brittle to the touch, but even as Dean frowned to himself, he gathered his dignity and turned, a strange half-smile gracing his lips.

"I would like us to be friends, Dean, if that is your wish as well. You were my dearest friend, once."

Something rose in his gorge. He returned Cas's sad half-smile with a sickly one of his own. "Of course we can be friends again. Will you fish with me?"

\---

Castiel did not fish, of course, unable to cast with only his left hand, and they remained mostly in silence, but he found himself enjoying Dean's company, nonetheless.

After that, they saw more of each other, both as part of the obligatory social rounds, where he was pleased to note that Dean had left off flirting with Anna, and showed no further signs of pursuing any of the other local ladies – even Miss Richings with whom he had seemed to have such a rapport – and more often alone, fishing together and walking or riding together, as they had used to do. As Dr. Richings prescribed new exercises for Castiel's arm, Dean insisted on helping him with them. He began to regain some movement, though the progress remained slow and painful.

With Michael continuing to be recalcitrant on the question of Rexford, despite the existing steward having written to suggest that he might like to take his retirement soon, and little else useful to occupy his days, Dean's presence was a godsend. He filled Castiel's days, slotting comfortably into his life as though they had never been parted, although they never acknowledged their shared past. If sometimes Castiel found himself yearning for more, he promised himself he would not act on it. He knew he had never truly fallen out of love with Dean, but nothing in Dean's demeanour suggested the same was true for him. Simply to have earned Dean's friendship again was more than enough, he assured himself.

\---

Dean could not stay away from Castiel, and what's more, he found he didn't want to. He remembered him bright and young and beautiful, but this older world-weary man was every bit as compelling, with his gentle smile and quiet wit and fierce intelligence. If Dean had been a poet, he could have composed odes to the rough gravel of his voice and the stormy blue of his eyes. If he had been a more vulgar sort of poet, he could have written them about the breadth of his thighs. But more than any physical attraction, he wanted to bask in his presence, to listen to him speak, to share all the things they had used to love.

He began to read his letters from Sam and his uncle aloud to him when they arrived, crowing with delight when Sam mentioned Mrs. Leahy, because, "I have never met two people more suited in my life, Cas." Castiel shared with him treatises on bee-keeping, and he found himself listening intently even though he was horrified by the thought of being surrounded by the stinging creatures. He even let Castiel in on the secret of his ownership of _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ when the latter told him that Anna was desperate for interesting reading material.

"You cannot laugh at me," he'd ordered, as he'd passed him the book to bring to his sister.

"I would never," Castiel had answered gravely.

It should have felt idyllic, if it were not for his nagging doubts.

They swam together one afternoon, splashing and wrestling like boys, and Castiel succeeded in dunking Dean beneath the water, only for Dean to grab his ankle and pull him under with him. They surfaced together, close enough that Dean could count the droplets clinging to Castiel's dark eyelashes, and gazing upon his open, laughing countenance, he was seized with the desire to kiss him. It was not a new desire, but one he had been steadily ignoring as too complicated to indulge in. Now, though, he wanted nothing more than to bridge the gap and taste those familiar lips.

He could not. Castiel had betrayed him once, he remembered with a pang. He could not risk opening himself to that again.

"Dean?" Castiel asked, looking confused and hopeful and regretful all at once, but Dean merely shook himself, turning away and wading out of the water.

"We should be going," he said, without looking over his shoulder. "We have both been invited to dinner and cards with the Starks this evening, and we will need to dress. He pulled on his discarded layers, only to be stopped by Castiel's hand on his shoulder.

"Dean, is everything alright?"

"Of course," Dean lied, pulling on his second boot, and turning for home. "I'll see you tonight."

He arrived at the Starks' still feeling out of sorts, to find that the family from Milton Park had already arrived. Instinctively, he sought out Castiel, to find him wearing his polite but inscrutable company mask. Feeling a surge of resentment that he could be so off-balance while Castiel was seemingly unperturbed, he turned sharply away to engage in conversation with his host, missing the bewildered expression Castiel shot at his back.

He successfully avoided Castiel for most of the evening, though he could feel him periodically gazing at him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. Finally, as the card tables were breaking up, Castiel managed to sidle up to him.

"I hope I have not offended you," he murmured, for Dean's ears only. "I don't know what I've done, but if you tell me, I'll do my best to fix it."

Dean sighed and turned to him, swallowing at the sincerity in his eyes. "I'm simply trying to reconcile two conflicting things, and it has me spun out."

Castiel offered him a tentative smile. "I'm glad I have not been the one to upset you. I am always willing to listen, if you need help with your conflict."

Unsure how to answer, Dean merely nodded his thanks. He spent a sleepless night, trying futilely to understand how the Castiel who had so earnestly offered his help could be the same Castiel who had denounced him, and could find no satisfactory answers, but nevertheless, he felt a leap in his heart the next afternoon when Castiel and Anna called in at tea, pushing his doubts out of his mind.


	6. Chapter 5

"Do you ever miss it?" Dean asked one day, as they lounged on a grassy hillside which afforded an excellent view of Armstrong's follies. "The war?"

Castiel contemplated the question for a long moment. "Sometimes," he replied at long last. "I don't miss the mud, or the disease, or the death. I don't miss the misery and the destruction. But I do miss having a purpose. Here, I'm useless."

Dean hummed in thought. "What of the stewardship of Rexford? That was what you wanted, once."

Castiel shook his head bitterly. "Do you think I haven't mentioned it? Michael won't hear of it, and Mother changes the subject whenever I bring it up. I am a grave disappointment to them, you know."

Dean frowned, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. "I've noticed, but I don’t understand. Injury or not, I know you were a decorated officer. Doesn't that count for something?"

"You really don't understand?" Castiel asked, wryly. "You, of all people, were there. Don't you know that I'm a sodomite, Dean?"

A change went over Dean's face then, becoming hard and closed off. "I would have thought that you'd have been forgiven after shifting all the blame to me." His voice was stiff, cold.

"I don't understand what you mean."

Dean sat up abruptly. "Oh, don't you? Are you denying that you betrayed me to save your own skin?"

"Of course, I'm denying it," Castiel said hotly, scrambling upright himself. "I have no idea how you came to such a conclusion."

"Your brother threatened to have me horsewhipped!"

"He _did_ have me horsewhipped, and then confined to my room. Did you think I would not have contrived to at least say goodbye, if I could?"

Dean shook his head. "He told me you had denounced me, that you had named me a seducer."

"Dean, no," Castiel whispered, aghast, "I would never! I loved you. Michael would have had you arrested, and all I could think to do was to threaten to turn myself over as well."

"So he let me go, so as not to see you tried?"

"He let you go so I would not bring shame on the family name. He bought my commission the next day. My mother said I could bring honour to our family or die trying. I think she would have preferred if I had died," he added as a bitter afterthought.

"Cas." Dean was staring at him in horror. "I didn't know."

"And you believed I betrayed you. You have spent all these years hating me, I suppose? You came here, why? To punish me somehow?" Cas's voice ripped from his throat, raw and aching. Dean did not deny it. All his odd behaviour from the first few days they had been reacquainted made sudden, horrible sense. "That is why you flirted with Anna when you first arrived."

"Cas," Dean tried again, but Castiel turned his head, unable to look at his shamefaced expression.

"Please just go," he begged dully. He had believed they were friends again. Dean didn't move. He could feel his eyes on his back. "Dean, please. Leave me."

"Right." Dean's voice sounded choked as well, but he didn't dare turn to look at him. "Of course. I am sorry, Cas." He walked away, his footsteps muffled in the grass. Castiel lay on his back and stared up at the sky.

\---

Dean felt sick. Luckily he had made no commitments for the rest of the day, so he was able to lock himself in his library with a bottle of whiskey, with strict instructions that he was not at home, and steadily drink himself beneath the surface. _God,_ he thought, hanging his head in his hands, _it had all been genuine,_ Castiel's love for him then, and his friendship now, his relief at seeing him. The only masks he had worn had been in front of others, to protect Dean's identity. And Dean had come here with the intention of courting his sister and rubbing his face in it. He had thrown away what he knew deep down to be the best friendship he'd ever had in the name of what? Petty revenge? He laughed bitterly into his cups, glad that there was no one there to observe him.

An image came to him then, of a young Castiel, eyes shining, hair tousled, and lips kiss-bitten and smiling in that sweet way of his, every inch of him radiating love, and Dean remembered what it was like to feel all that love in return, to be young and incandescent with it, and knew with an overwhelming certainty that he would never feel like that again. All the love that he had kept buried beneath the hurt for years might be set free to sing in his veins, but he could never again hope to have it returned. He could never again deserve it.

Feeling suitably melodramatic, he went to drain his glass, only to find both it and the crystal decanter empty of all but the last drops. With a groan, he let his head fall to the table, and swiftly passed out.

When he awoke hours later it was to a dark room. Feeling only marginally more sober, he hauled himself to his feet and searched out a match to light the candles. That done, he slumped back into his chair to think.

He considered simply quitting the area altogether, and abandoning Scribe's Hall, but questions would surely be asked for which there were no adequate answers. He felt, too, the necessity of apologizing to Castiel, of making certain he knew that Dean no longer bore him any ill will, that he knew he had wronged him. Perhaps he would take his direction from Castiel's wishes. If Cas truly wanted him gone, then he would break his lease, but he must speak with him first.


	7. Chapter 6

The next time they would be in company together was two nights hence, at a local assembly in the nearby village. Ordinarily, such an event would be beneath the touch of the earl's family, but Lady Milton opined that their presence would show an appropriate degree of condescension, and would lend the gathering a great deal of countenance, which would surely be gratifying to the organizers.

Castiel had allowed his valet to dress him, feeling oddly numb. As he made his way downstairs, he wondered what he would say to Dean if they were to meet face to face. But of course they would be in public, and any interaction they had would be carefully calculated so as not to betray any hint of their past. He handed Anna into the carriage where Michael had already helped their mother, and wondered if it would hurt. He did not think he had properly felt anything since Dean had left him in the grass.

It was much the same way he had drifted through his early days with his regiment, before his first battle had shocked him out of his stupor. Having lost his hopes for the future, his family's esteem, and Dean all with one blow, he had gone through the motions of training entirely detached from himself, earning praise for his discipline, though hardly aware of time moving forward. It was only under heavy cannon fire, with bullets flying by, and pikes being drawn, having to give orders as one of his men lay dying by his feet that he had truly found his purpose, dedicating himself to strategy, in the name of defeating Napoleon and keeping his men alive. He had earned accolades as well, up until the bayonet had sliced through the meat of his shoulder, nearly severing his arm.

Without his registering the distance travelled, they arrived at the meeting rooms. He shook himself out of his memories, and helped Anna down from the carriage where she was immediately borne off by the Richings sisters to join a group of girls, but not before casting Castiel a concerned glance. He shook his head, lips tight, and she allowed herself to be led away. For his part, he placed himself near a wall, hoping to avoid notice. It was not to be, for no sooner was he situated than he was approached by MacLeod.

"Ah, Shurley," he had greeted him in that smooth tone that Castiel had never fully trusted.

"MacLeod," he acknowledged him with a nod and an internal sigh.

"You aren't planning on standing here all night, aloof and untouchable, are you?" MacLeod inquired.

"I was unaware that I was supposed to be touching."

"What I meant was that you ought to consider escorting some of the young ladies here for a turn about the dance floor. You are inexplicably popular with them, despite your seeming total lack of interest. April Richings, for instance, is absolutely panting over you. And I have it on high authority that Miss Masters and my young cousin Cecily find your military career excessively romantic, even despite your having sold out."

"Why are you telling me this?" Castiel asked, his irritation at MacLeod briefly cutting through the fog.

MacLeod examined his fingernails. "My mother has charged me with ensuring all the young ladies have partners, and I despise dancing myself." He rolled his eyes, and Castiel followed his eyeline to where Mrs. MacLeod's deep purple gown and nodding hair plumes dominated the room. His gaze caught on Dean's form. Their eyes connected for a fleeting moment, before he angled his body further toward MacLeod. It made no difference, as he could feel Dean's attention fixed upon his back, and suddenly he was weary.

He did not like dancing, and had not attempted it since his injury. No doubt he would be even more awkward and off-balance than usual, but it would be unkind to refuse to dance at all when there were young women who would otherwise be relegated to being wallflowers, and dancing would provide him with something to focus on besides Dean's presence, and allow him to delay the inevitable moment of their meeting. He frowned, but conceded, though he did not like to give MacLeod the satisfaction. Fortunately, as MacLeod uttered a smug, "Good man," he was able to observe, "The numbers really are uneven this evening. I do believe you will need to join a set or two yourself. If you will excuse me."

Sets were forming for a cotillion, and he solicited the hand of Miss Masters, whom he had always liked for her dry wit and fierce loyalty to her friends. He had sometimes suspected that, had he been able to love women in the way society told him he ought, the two of them might have made a match of it. A glance at Dean revealed a mournful gaze turned in his direction, but then Dean was approaching Anna, and the pair of them joined the couples on the dance floor.

Distracted, Castiel danced more poorly than usual. "Well," opined Miss Masters after Castiel begged her pardon for treading on her toes yet again, "I suppose dancing cannot be a great asset to a military career. Mr. Singer is faring even worse than you."

It was true. Dean's focus was not on his partner, nor was it on the steps. Every now and again his attention would slide to Castiel, and he would falter. "Sorry," he apologized to Anna, then, "Sorry," again. "I'm usually much better than this." Castiel didn't catch her words in return, but from then on, Dean remained stubbornly attentive to the dance. The same could not be said for Castiel.

At long last the music ended, and the gentlemen escorted the ladies back to their seats, where they would presumably nurse their sore feet. Dean disappeared somewhere, and Castiel was able to lead several other ladies out with only the minor awkwardness brought about by his lack of skill, and no further damage to any delicate slippers. It was only once he felt he had done his duty that he slipped outside for some air and discovered Dean on the terrace, staring broodily out into the night.

"I beg your pardon," he muttered, prepared to retreat back into the assembly rooms, but Dean's shoulders tightened and he croaked out one word.

"Stay." He heaved a heavy sigh, and pushed himself up from the rail, turning to face Castiel. "Please stay," he amended. "I want to apologize."

Weary to the bone, Castiel closed his eyes. "It is not necessary," he said stiffly. "It was foolish of me to think that you would want to rekindle a friendship which had led to such disastrous consequences."

"No, Cas." Dean took a step closer. "It was foolish of me to believe Michael then, and it was foolish of me to come here with nothing but some half-baked notion of making you hurt the way I did. I haven't – I gave that up almost right away. And then you were so – this hasn't all been a lie. I need you to know that. I did want to be your friend again. I have tried to be your friend, and I couldn't figure out how you could be the same person who betrayed me, only of course you hadn't, and–" he stopped abruptly, running his hand over his mouth.

"Dean," Castiel said helplessly, with no idea of how he intended to continue.

"I was wrong, Cas," Dean said, his voice a low ache, "And I'm so damnably sorry. I'll understand if you tell me to leave Scribe's Hall and never come back, but I do want to be your friend."

In that moment, Castiel knew he was going to forgive the penitent man. "Stay," he echoed Dean's earlier entreaty.

"Cas?"

"Please stay." He ducked his head. "You hurt me, Dean, but you were lied to. I should be more angry at Michael for lying than you for believing him. I have enjoyed your friendship these past few weeks, and I would like to enjoy it without this misunderstanding between us."

"Walk with me?" Dean asked, almost abruptly.

Startled, Castiel's head flew up. "Of course."

"Good." Dean strode down from the terrace, turning his head to check that Castiel was still by his side. The assembly hall sat towards the edge of the village, so he led them swiftly through the gardens into the darkness beyond. Once they were well out of sight of any revelers who might step outside for some air, Dean caught up Castiel's hand in his. "Is this alright?" he asked, his voice gruff with embarrassment.

Castiel squeezed his hand in response. Cautiously, he asked. "I have no wish to make you uncomfortable, but why have you brought us out here?"

Though it was too dark to see the colour rise in Dean's cheeks, the way he turned his head away and rubbed at the back of his neck was familiar and endearing. "This was stupid. Forgive me. Let's–" he turned to rejoin the assembly, but Castiel tugged him back by the hand.

"Dean," he said, lifting his fingertips to brush against his face. "Dean, would you kiss me?"

Dean's eyes were wide in the bare moonlight, but he nodded, leaning in so that their lips brushed softly together. Castiel's breath released on a sigh.

"Again?" Dean whispered, and Cas slid his hand up to cup his cheek, drawing him in for another kiss, as gentle as the first.

"Oh," Castiel breathed as they pulled away this time, Dean nipping ever so sweetly at his bottom lip, "how I have missed you." They surged together again, Dean's hands stealing into Castiel's hair as they had always been wont to do, and Castiel trying to draw him closer and closer still, Dean's mouth hot on his.

He ended up with his back pressed up against a tree, as Dean lavished kisses along his jaw and down the column of his throat. "Cas," he pleaded, unknotting his neckcloth, "Cas, I need – Let me see you. Please."

"Yes, Dean," Castiel hissed his assent as Dean's teeth grazed his skin, and then he could feel the restrained urgency in Dean's hands as they carefully peeled his coat and then his waistcoat from his shoulders, fingers shaking as he helped him off with his shirt.

"God, look at you," he breathed, taking him in, as Castiel attempted to undress him one-handed.

"Dean," he growled, as he fumbled again, "help me."

Dean laughed, and swiftly bared his torso, dragging in a sharp breath between his teeth as Castiel ran his good hand over the planes of his chest. Dean had been beautiful as a boy, but as a man – "Magnificent," he proclaimed.

They pressed together again, mouths meeting in sweet hunger. Eventually Dean managed to get a hand in between them, opening the falls of their breeches, and drawing their hot, hard lengths together in his hand. Castiel dropped his head back against the tree, panting. "Dean," he gasped.

"Help me out here, sweetheart," Dean begged, and Castiel added his hand to Dean's, circling warmly around their flesh, as together they worked themselves closer to the edge. He came first, trembling and spilling over their fists. "Oh god, Cas," Dean shuddered, following him into completion.

\---

They leaned heavily against each other for long moments, soaking in each other's warmth, before a distant clatter of wheels on cobblestones suggested that guests were beginning to leave the assembly. They were too far out to be observed from the road, so they parted reluctantly, Dean taking a moment to press his forehead against Castiel's, and then a kiss against his lips. Dean retrieved his shirt, and used the tails to clean them both. It would be unpleasant against his skin, but the rest of his clothing would hide the evidence, especially if he did not linger overlong.

He redressed himself, then looked up to find Castiel with his lips pressed together in consternation. He had managed to put himself back inside his breeches and shirt, and even to rebutton his waistcoat, though in decidedly less tidy a fashion than before, but was regarding his coat and neckcloth with poorly disguised animosity.

"I would not be nearly so helpless," he informed Dean, wryly, "If only fashion were sensible."

Dean couldn't help but laugh. "Never change." He held out his hands for the offending garments. "Here, let me." Careful of Cas's bad shoulder, he helped him into the tight fitting coat, and expertly tied his neckcloth. With a last tweak of Cas's clothes to make him presentable, he stepped back and admired his work. "Perfect."

"Thank you." Castiel examined the length of his body. "You should have been a valet."

"It certainly would make things easier," Dean agreed. "That is, if we were going to continue this. Do you want to continue this?" he asked, suddenly worried.

Castiel wore an odd little smile. "Dean, I have lived celibately, but for my memories, since I last saw you. Yes, I want to continue this."

"Well." Dean cleared his throat, feeling suddenly like a callow youth. "Good."

"Yes," Castiel said, smile growing brighter, "I think so."

They parted ways once they returned to the gardens, but not without clasping hands, and agreeing to ride out from Scribe's Hall the next day. As he took his leave of the hostesses, Dean saw Castiel leading the younger Miss Richings onto the dance floor, but even that could not sour his mood, not when Castiel caught his eye just before he slipped out the door.


	8. Chapter 7

The next day, Dean didn't realize he was waiting in breathless anticipation until he was astride his magnificent black mare, Impala, and Castiel rode up on his own mount, sending a giddy rush through him, which he hoped didn't show on his face. Castiel's mount was a well-trained golden mare, who easily corrected for any imbalance Castiel's injury might cause. They spent the warm afternoon cantering through the neighbouring meadows, riding out as far as the Starks' house, before turning back to Scribe's Hall.

They ended up in the hermitage of which Mr. Armstrong was so proud, and with the golden sunlight streaming in through the door, Dean knocked a laughing Castiel onto the rustic bed, and proceeded to suck him off, until Castiel was clutching at the rough blanket and Dean's hair, and gasping his praises. When Castiel came in his mouth, and pressed Dean into the bed to return the favour, Dean offered no objections, struggling to keep his eyes open and fixed upon the glorious creature who was bringing him to such heights of bliss.

Afterwards, they lay side by side, pressed tightly together in the narrow cot, their fingers tenderly entwined. Dean yearned to declare himself, but could not bring the words to leave his mouth. That Castiel had forgiven him, and even lain with him was a gift in itself, but he knew he had gravely wronged him, and a confession of love so soon afterwards would surely be suspect. He hoped that he had not rendered it entirely unwelcome with time.

\---

"You seem happier lately," Anna remarked one day, several weeks later, as she and Castiel strolled back from the village, where she had convinced him to escort her.

"My arm is getting stronger," he offered as an explanation. "It has helped. I am even able to carry your purchases for you." He held up the small package of ribbons.

"There! I have never known you to be so lighthearted. I believe all the fresh air and exercise you have been taking with Mr. Singer has done wonders for your spirits."

Castiel hoped that the colour that rose in his cheeks could be explained away by the warmth of the day. He and Dean continued to walk or ride out together nearly daily, but those activities had been interspersed with frequent lovemaking, which no doubt _had_ been improving his spirits. Dean was a generous, considerate lover, playful, and affectionate in the quiet moments afterwards. Castiel had been indulging himself quite shamelessly, but how could a bond that felt so profound be shameful?

"Have you asked Michael again about Rexford?" Anna asked, interrupting his thoughts. "I don't understand why he is being so stubborn."

"He has his reasons," Castiel answered vaguely. In truth, he had been avoiding the question of Rexford, and of the future altogether. His affair with Dean did much to keep him occupied, but he knew there was a part of him that would continue to champ at the bit to be truly useful, and if his brother were to relent, he knew he would have to take the opportunity presented. More than that, he supposed at some point in the future, Mr. Armstrong would wish to return from Bath, and his tenant would have to vacate Scribe's Hall. Either way, he and Dean would inevitably be parted, and excuses to be again in one another's company would be far between. And that was assuming Dean did not grow bored of him and end the affair himself. They had, after all, never discussed the feelings between them, and while oftentimes Castiel imagined a certain tenderness in Dean's demeanor, he did not quite dare to ask.

"But tell me," he changed the subject, "what you have been writing to cousin Balthazar." Castiel and Anna spent the rest of the walk home in lively discussion of the latest exploits of their decadent cousin, and if Castiel kissed Dean a little more fiercely the next time they were alone, then no one would know the worries that nagged at his mind.


	9. Chapter 8

Mr. Samuel Campbell was not a man who forgave easily. He had always closely guarded his family, particularly his only child, Mary, and one would have been hard-pressed to find the man he considered worthy of her. John Winchester was not that man, and when the headstrong girl had defied her father to run off with him, he was determined not to bend, even as he felt a reluctant twinge of pride to read of the birth of his grandsons.

His disdain of John seemed to be proven when the man failed to write to inform him of Mary's death. He learned of it only a year later, when an acquaintance who had happened to have visited Cornwall mentioned the circumstances in which the family was living.

With his wife long-deceased, and his daughter now cold in the ground, he only closed himself off more, and in his later years became positively reclusive. It was only when his long-time physician expressed concern for his failing health that he began to concern himself with his legacy. There were distant cousins, of course, who might inherit, but he had taken a deep dislike to each and every one of them, and the thought of passing on his property to one of them filled him with revulsion.

He had written, then, to a man in London, charging him with locating his grandsons. Samuel Winchester was easily located. His career was promising, even if his grandfather did not fully approve of one of his line working as a mere solicitor. The elder brother proved harder to locate, and it was only by chance that Campbell's man managed to connect him with the much-praised Captain Singer. That intrigued Campbell, for he had a great respect for the Navy, and considered the abandonment of John Winchester's last name the height of good sense. He had summoned his lawyer, and set about amending his will.

His foresight in doing so proved to be fortuitous indeed, for only weeks later, a letter arrived for Captain Dean Singer, formerly Winchester, at his brother's home in Cheapside, where he had last been known to reside. Sam had dutifully sent the letter on to Scribe's Hall, where Dean opened it over breakfast, and proceeded to choke on his rasher of bacon.

"Dean, what is it? Are you alright?" Castiel, who had joined him after an early morning ramble that had inevitably led to a tryst in the crumbling Gothic tower – very picturesque – leapt to his feet, with the intention of pounding him on the back to dispel the morsel. Dean waved him off with watering eyes, and managed to swallow.

"Is it bad news?" Castiel asked, brow creased with concern.

Dean cleared his pained throat, and read from the letter. "Mr. Zachariah Adler, a lawyer, writes to offer his condolences on the death of my grandfather, Samuel Campbell – whom I was unaware was still alive – by apoplexy, and to inform me that, aside from several pension settlements to be made to loyal servants, I am the sole inheritor, both of his fortune, and of his property. Good God!" He stared at Castiel with wide, shocked eyes.

\---

Dean had started for London that same day to seek his brother's legal advice. Sam, surprised but pleased to see him, had read the letter Dean thrust under his nose with eyebrows steadily creeping upwards, and, astonished, had paid a call on Mr. Adler. He had verified the truth of the will, and they had spent the next fortnight hashing out the details of transferring the wealth and property to Dean's name.

Meanwhile, Dean himself had little to do beyond amusing himself in the city, and he found himself occupied with thoughts of Cas wherever he went. When they had been separated before, the fire of his anger over Castiel's perceived betrayal had burned hot, and the demands of adjusting to life in the Navy had kept him too busy to feel Cas's absence. Now though, he missed him like a severed limb. He had spent that very morning walking in Hyde Park, only to wish that he was walking through the woods of Milton Park with Cas by his side instead.

He had tried to write to Cas several times in the first days. _"London is stale without you,"_ he had written, before being seized with doubts at the absurd, and possibly unwanted, sentiment. They had not spoken further of their feelings for each other. Disgusted with himself, he had held that attempt to his candle's flame, then sat down to pen another. _"Dear Cas,"_ he had begun, then wondered if the salutation was too intimate. What if Michael or Lady Milton were to get their hands on it. Would they see it as a mere upstart being overly familiar with their illustrious family? Would they wonder how a friendship of only a few months' duration had become so close?

In the end, Dean had sent only a short missive.

 _"C,"_ it had read, _“I have inherited my grandfather's estate in Northumberland, and will have to settle there. There is a home farm, and tenant cottages. People depend on me.”_ In a fit of bravery, he added. _“I will see you before I depart, and I hope you will visit me, as often as you wish. You will always be welcome.”_ He signed it, _“Yours, Dean Singer.”_ It was less than he wanted to say, though as much as he dared.

"So everything is in order?" Dean asked now, pacing around Sam's study.

“Nearly everything,” Sam agreed now. “I’ve written to Armstrong to break your lease. Otherwise, there is only the matter of the staff who have been pensioned off. Mr. Adler has promised to provide us with a list of those who need replacing by tomorrow morning.”

Dean shuffled a mess of papers on the corner of his brother's desk into a neater pile. With interest, he noticed that Sam’s notes were accompanied by others in a tidy hand that he suspected belonged to the admirable Eileen Leahy. “Thank you, Sammy, for everything.”

His brother raised an eyebrow. “It's Sam. And I could do no less, as both your brother and your lawyer.”

“Are you sure you will not take any of the money? It doesn't seem right, the old man leaving it all to me, and nothing to you." They had had the argument several times since Dean's arrival in town, with Sam always refusing, on the grounds that he was comfortably settled, and quite happy to make his fortune on his own merits. "You could have enough money to marry on," Dean wheedled, grinning when his brother's face turned pink.

"I do have enough for that," he mumbled.

"Well then." Dean raised his eyebrows significantly at his brother. "What are you waiting for?"

Sam shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know. It has simply never felt like the right time."

Dean thought of Cas, thought of leaving him behind to settle in Northumberland, only to see him if he could persuade him to visit, and leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Trust me, Sam. It's the right time. If you have the opportunity for real love, to be together, it is always the right time."

\---

The next morning he received the list from Mr. Adler. One of the positions to be filled was that of the steward.


	10. Chapter 9

Dean arrived back at Scribe's Hall in mid-morning, and stopped there only long enough to change out of his dusty travelling clothes before making the journey to Milton Park. Only Lady Anna was about when he called.

"You have missed my mother and Michael," she informed him, "but Castiel is just with the doctor, and will be back soon. We can walk in the garden while you wait."

"I am not unhappy with your company," Dean protested, giving her his arm as they descended to the parterres.

She laughed gaily. "Oh, naturally, but the two of you are close. Kindred spirits, I think."

"I–" Dean began, with no thought of how he planned to finish the thought. Certainly not with the truth, that Castiel felt like a part of his soul, that he loved him with a sure certainty that was so much stronger than his youthful awe had been. "I have never had such a valuable friend," he admitted lamely.

"It is good to hear that," Lady Anna turned her earnest face to him, her eyes shining. "You have been very good for him, a true friend, and that means more than I can say. He has been more the brother I remember from before that dreadful day he went off to war, even despite Mother and Michael trying to suffocate him. Oh, how I wish you weren't going away!"

Dean ducked his head. "I see the news has travelled. You really believe I have done so much for him?"

"I do," she affirmed, and would have said more, but at that moment Castiel and Dr. Richings hove into view, and Dean felt something ignite in his chest when Castiel's eyes alit on him and a smile tugged on his mouth.

"I didn't know you were back," he said, once they were close enough to converse.

"I just arrived this morning," Dean admitted, "and called here first. I wished to speak to you."

"My condolences on the passing of your grandfather," Dr. Richings addressed Dean. "I understand you will be leaving us for your inheritance."

"Yes, sir."

"More's the pity. You have made a tolerable addition to the neighbourhood. Much better sense than that fool, Armstrong." From the doctor, that was high praise indeed.

"Thank you."

"Will you stroll with me, doctor?" Anna asked, deftly steering that gentleman towards the terraces. "I wanted to ask your opinion of adding lilies to the garden."

Dean and Cas were left alone, though still in far too open a space. By unspoken agreement they turned towards the woods that bordered the lake.

"How was London?" Castiel asked, as they walked.

"Damnably boring without you." It was the same sentiment he had been unable to put into his letter, but now, buoyed with Anna's words, and his own plan, conceived in his brother's study the day before, he had hope. "I had to leave, you know, so my brother could woo his Mrs. Leahy without my presence."

"Very generous of you."

"And how has it been here?" Dean asked softly.

"Damnably boring without you."

\---

In the days following Dean's abrupt departure for London, Castiel had been sharply reminded of what his days had been like before Dean had come back into his life, and that he was not, after all, a man who liked a life of pure leisure, with no useful occupation. He was reminded more keenly, too, how little his mother and brother appreciated his presence. It would have been simpler for them, he thought, if he had died heroically on the battlefield.

Anna was a solace, at least, though she too was feeling the yoke of the family name. The very day Dean had ridden off, they had been subjected to an hour in the drawing room as their mother and Michael had discussed the merits of various suitors for Anna, drawing up plans to invite this one or that one to join a house party in the hopes of making a match. Neither Castiel nor Anna had been invited to contribute.

When Dean's letter had come after the first week, it had been a severe blow. Of course Dean could not abandon the people who now depended on him – it was not in his nature, and Castiel admired him all the more for it – but a small, selfish part of him wished that he could keep Dean with him instead. The prospect of visiting him in Northumberland was a meager balm, for it would do nothing to fill the long, empty days that would stretch out on either side of those all-too-brief reunions. He had gone to Michael about Rexford one more time, and had been firmly rebuffed

"I have been considering my prospects," Castiel confessed now, as they passed beneath the trees. "It is clear that Michael has no intention of allowing me useful employment. I have written to an agency in London. There are several gentlemen looking to hire a steward, who might be willing to take me on. The most promising is in Suffolk."

"Do you really wish to be so far from home?" Dean inquired.

Castiel shook his head sharply. "With you leaving, and Anna sure to be married and gone within the year, my existence here will become intolerable. I cannot live my life being punished with enforced idleness. Not for the crime of loving you."

Hope took wing in Dean's chest. "You could come with me."

"Dean. I am not asking you to take pity on me."

"It is a serious offer. I have been given to understand that my grandfather's steward is an elderly gentleman who wishes to take his retirement. So you see, I need you."

Castiel's lips twitched. "A high endorsement indeed, and very enticing. One appreciates being needed."

Dean took a deep breath. "I could do you one better, if you wish."

"Better than being needed?"

"Cas, you loved me once. Do you think you could learn to again?"

Castiel sighed, looking out over the nearby clearing. "Dean, I never stopped. I have loved you faithfully for years."

Dean's hand stole into his. Without turning his head, he murmured, "I love you, too, you know. I want you with me, Cas. Please say you'll come with me?" He raised Cas's hand to his mouth, and pressed a fervent kiss to his knuckles, not daring to look into his face.

Cas cupped his cheek in one hand. "Dean, look at me." His face was radiant. "Yes, I will come with you. Of course I will."

Dean squeezed his hand tighter. "I wish there was no need for secrecy. I wish I could proclaim it to the world. All I can offer you is employment."

"The employment I have wanted for years. And your love. Dean, it is all I could want. You are all I could want."

"You will come?" he begged. "I think you had better kiss me, then, to seal the deal."

Cas kissed him, smiling against his mouth, surrounded by trees and fields, and the gold light of the sun, and Dean kissed him back, full of love, and joy, and forgiveness, and hope.

They pulled apart, just far enough to breathe, and Dean grinned. "I hope you know I plan to be very involved in the running of the estate. I have a great deal of interest in stewardship, you see."

Cas laughed then, a bright, beautiful sound, and Dean could not help but kiss him again.


	11. Epilogue & Bonus

February in Northumberland left something to be desired, though thankfully Cas had no reason to be outside in the blustery weather. Instead he was holed up in the study, with the fire built up high, going over the meticulous account books left by the previous steward. Though Samuel Campbell had been a recluse and a crank in his later years, either he had a good head for business, or his steward had, and the estate was prosperous, though Castiel did have plans for improvements to the home farm and some of the cottages come spring. First on the agenda were the hives he intended to introduce.

Samuel Campbell's reclusiveness had served Dean and Cas well. He had kept few indoor servants, all as elderly as he, and they had chosen to retire on the generous pensions he had left them. They had hired two housemaids, who lived in the nearby village, and returned home to their mothers at night, and the cook, Mr. Lafitte, who also kept a house there. Dean had been obligated to hire a housekeeper, but despite her knowing looks, Mrs. Harvelle was the soul of discretion. There had been an oblique mention of, "My boy, Ashley, God rest him," and the subject had never been further breached. All in all, Dean and Castiel had been granted a great deal of privacy to conduct their lives as they saw fit.

A draught blew in through the window, and Castiel rubbed at his shoulder. He had regained a great deal of mobility in the arm, but the cold weather could still set the bones to aching.

Before he could ring for a cup of hot tea, Dean was pushing open the study doors, bearing a tray before him.

"Courtesy of Mrs. Harvelle," he said, his cheer suffusing the room with warmth. He poured Castiel a cup, and Cas laid his work aside to accept it, their fingers brushing and lingering. Rather than taking a cup for himself, Dean moved to stand behind Cas's chair, massaging his shoulder without needing to be asked.

"Tell me," he said, bending close to brush a kiss against the shell of Castiel's ear, "how is our little piece of paradise faring?"

 

 

 

**Bonus**

_A.k.a. cover blurbs for imaginary sequels. The first is Sam/Eileen, the second is Anna/Ruby, and the third is Donna/Jody._

 

**Legally Wed**

Deaf from infancy and alone in the world, Eileen Leahy is nonetheless determined to recover her family's lost legacy. Her quarry is a client of promising young lawyer Samuel Winchester, whom the spirited Irish beauty convinces to hire her on as a housekeeper, in order to find the evidence she needs.

Sam Winchester is immediately captivated by his lovely new housekeeper, and his infatuation only grows when he discovers that she has a brilliant legal mind as well. Conscious of his position as her employer, he dares not make a move, until a threat from the man who stole her legacy leaves them with only one option: Marriage!

 

**A Portrait of Love**

Lady Anna Shurley is not supposed to even know what a courtesan is, but when she pesters her cousin Balthazar into giving her painting lessons, that is exactly what she encounters, in the person of live model Ruby, who quickly becomes her muse.

Ruby Cortese finds herself unwittingly intrigued by perfect Lady Anna, and her plans to amuse herself by drawing her into a dalliance soon give way to real love. But Anna is the sister of an earl, destined for a society wedding and a life of privilege. Surely she would not throw it all away for a courtesan who had once been mistress to one of the most dangerous men in England?

 

_**And don't miss the latest in Historical Western Romance...** _

**On Prairie Winds**

Following the death of her family, Jody Mills has hung on to her farm through sheer grit and determination, but when she takes in two girls with no kin of their own, she needs an extra pair of hands.

Plucky Donna Hanscum may have been jilted by her fiancé, but she is determined to make a fresh start. When she answers an ad, believing it to be for a mail-order bride, she isn't expecting Jody, and Jody is definitely not expecting her!

But Donna is no stranger to hard work, and with two troubled girls to care for, and a greedy neighbour breathing down their necks, Jody and Donna find strength in each other... and passion in each other's arms!


End file.
